Sophie Weston - In The Arms Of The Sheikh

‘At least keep up security at Serenata Place.’ It was as close to a plea as the old autocrat could manage.

Kazim was still smouldering at the thought of being spied on. ‘My arrangements to entertain my friends are my own business.’

His grandfather exploded. ‘Friends! What sort of friends want to put you in danger?’

‘Ordinary friends,’ retorted Kazim.

‘Pah!’

But there was a note of real despair in the old man’s voice. Kazim paused, then sat on the sofa and leaned forward slightly.

‘It is only for the weekend,’ he said in a softened voice.

‘Duration is irrelevant,’ said the Emir. ‘It would take a sniper less than a minute to kill you.’ He glared at Kazim as if he hated him.

‘I’ll have Tom do a complete sweep before the guests arrive on Friday,’ Kazim said gently. ‘And I’ll get the full security team in when the servants come on duty again.’

The Emir made a noise of undisguised contempt.

Kazim became noticeably less gentle. ‘But I can’t have my best friend’s engagement party spoiled by men with headsets and professional paranoia.’

‘A party! Have you even checked the guest list?’

Kazim was suddenly every inch the desert prince. ‘Dominic is my friend.’

‘I thought not,’ said his grandfather with angry satisfaction.

Kazim unbent a little. ‘Grandfather, try to understand. Dom and I go climbing together. He has held my life in his hands and I his. Of course I haven’t run checks on his friends.’

‘Cancel this party!’

Kazim’s gaze was level. ‘In my place, would you?’

He knew a lot of stories about his grandfather’s youth. Courage and loyalty featured highly. So did sheer wilfulness.

He lowered his eyes. ‘Everything I am I have inherited from my illustrious forebears,’ he murmured, the picture of a dutiful descendant.

The Emir narrowed his eyes. ‘There’s such a thing as being too clever,’ he said obliquely. ‘One day you’ll fall flat on that smug face of yours.’

Kazim’s dark eyes, so like the Emir’s, lit with sudden humour. ‘When that happens, I’ll make sure you know immediately,’ he assured his grandfather.

And took his leave.

His personal assistant was waiting for him beside the air-conditioned four-wheel drive in the palace’s security yard when Kazim emerged. His angry strides made his white robe billow.

‘Well?’

‘The old man has a spy in my household,’ said Kazim between his teeth. ‘He wants me to fill Serenata Place with twenty-four-hour security. Give me the keys.’

Martin’s heart sank. But he handed over the keys. Most of the time Kazim was open to reason, but these encounters with his grandfather tended to ignite his temper. He had been known to smoulder for days.

Martin fell into step beside him, shaking his head. ‘This is about Dominic’s weekend, right?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, he has a point.’

They had reached the car. Just about to swing himself up behind the steering wheel, Kazim paused.

‘Listen to me, Martin,’ he said deliberately. ‘I spend my public life surrounded by bodyguards and security timetables. Just once, I want to give a party like an ordinary man.’

Martin had worked for Kazim a long time. He knew when his boss was not going to change his mind.

They all did, the people who worked for Kazim. The households dreaded it; the office dealt with it; his personal staff called it Kazim in sheikh mode. It didn’t happen often. But when it did, he was immoveable.

Martin sighed. ‘It’s your decision.’

They got into the car. Kazim started the engine, checking the Global Positioning Unit.

‘If I can’t trust a man I climb with, I can’t trust anyone.’

Martin was sympathetic. But it was his job to remind Kazim of unwelcome truths. ‘You haven’t climbed with the girlfriend. Or the girlfriend’s girlfriends.’

Kazim turned his head in pure astonishment. ‘You think the Sons of Saraq will send some London fashionista to assassinate me?’

Martin gave a crack of laughter. ‘Put like that it doesn’t seem likely,’ he admitted.

Kazim put the car in drive. For the first time in days, his eyes were dancing. ‘All I can say is, she’d better be blonde!’

He stayed in that frivolous mood all through the flight back to London, to the despair of Martin and Tom Soltano, Kazim’s American Head of Security. By the time they had been in the air an hour, Martin Page was holding onto his temper so hard it squeaked. And then Kazim said something so outrageous that he exploded.

‘You are joking?’

Kazim raised his haughty profile from the file he was frowning through and his eyebrows rose.

‘I never joke about the diary.’

It was all too nearly true. In the last crowded years, Kazim had shuttled round the world, bringing his particular brand of high intellect and measured calm to conflicts from desert to inner city. It was an important schedule and a responsible one. But it did not make for a lot of laughs.

Martin, who organised most of it, knew all about that. Now he jumped up and flung a poster sized chart down on the table in front of Kazim. It showed his appointments, day by day, for six months ahead. Martin stabbed a finger at the week Kazim had been talking about. ‘Just look. You haven’t got time.’

Kazim stayed serene, as he always did. It was one of his most irritating characteristics. ‘Then I will make time.’

Martin swung round and looked at him broodingly. ‘Maybe you’re so good at making peace because everyone in the room ends up hating you.’

Tom Soltano gave a choke of laughter, which he converted quickly into a cough.

Kazim said calmly, ‘There is always a solution.’

But Martin was too wound up to stop. ‘Look at that month. New York, Paris, Saraq, Indonesia, Turkey. You can’t be certain you will even make Dominic’s wedding, let alone run the show.’

Kazim smiled. He had a beautiful smile. It lit his eyes, turning the stern face to melting charm in the flick of an eyelash. That smile made women adore him. Martin regarded it with deep suspicion.

‘But I am not going to run Dominic’s wedding,’ said Kazim mildly. ‘He has asked me to be his best man. That is all. I gather I stand there holding the wedding rings. How time-consuming can it be?’

Martin stared at him, speechless. American Tom was more forthright.

‘Have you been to an English wedding?’

Kazim al Saraq was brilliant and powerful, with an arrogantly sculpted profile and enough oil wells to mean that people generally did not argue with him. But the other two were his closest associates. They never remembered the oil wells and ignored the profile.

After a few seconds in which he tried and failed to outstare them, Kazim became ever so slightly defensive. ‘An English wedding? Naturally.’

‘A big one? With aunts in hats? Mothers in tears?’ pressed his security adviser with feeling.

Kazim’s lips twitched. ‘Weddings aren’t so different across cultures,’ he said dryly. ‘Mothers in tears are standard from Bombay to Baffin Island.’

All three men contemplated the thought. All three shuddered.

Then Tom pulled himself together. ‘I guess you’re right about mothers,’ he admitted. ‘But the British best man is unique. And it’s a lot more than holding a couple of rings, believe me. I’ve done it.’

Martin nodded. ‘Listen to the man.’

Kazim smiled reluctantly. ‘Okay. Go ahead. Terrify me.’

The other two looked at each other.

‘Well,’ said Tom with relish. ‘You’re responsible for the groom. I mean responsible. You have to give him the party of his life. Even when he’s married he supposed to look back on it as his last days of freedom. That sort of party.’